


For King and Country

by HopeStoryteller



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Everyone Has Issues, Faramir Has Issues, Gen, I'm not super familiar with Tolkien lore ok I'm just writing this for my dad, let me live, no beta we die like Boromir
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:34:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28321710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeStoryteller/pseuds/HopeStoryteller
Summary: Late was the hour when Faramir of Gondor slipped on not plate armor but a simple, hooded traveling cloak, put together some necessities, and prepared to ride out not east to Osgiliath, but west.Faramir makes a choice. This does not, in the end, change the outcome of the War of the Ring—but it changes Faramir's own outcome a great deal.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel & Faramir (Son of Denethor II), Aragorn | Estel & Gimli (Son of Glóin) & Legolas Greenleaf, Faramir (Son of Denethor II) & Gandalf | Mithrandir
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	For King and Country

Late was the hour when Faramir of Gondor slipped on not plate armor but a simple, hooded traveling cloak, put together some necessities, and prepared to ride out not east to Osgiliath, but west. No one batted an eye at this, for who would ever expect Faramir to go against the direct orders of Lord Denethor, Steward of Gondor? Faramir did not.

Or perhaps, more accurately, he would not have.

_ You wish now that our places had been exchanged, that I had died and Boromir had lived? _

A part of him was sure that, had Boromir still been here, he could have retaken Osgiliath. Maybe he could have found a way. Maybe he would have gotten lucky. But the sensible part of Faramir, the part that urged him to flee before it was too late, knew that even Boromir couldn’t have done it. Boromir would not have had to.

_ Yes, I wish that. _

Their father would not have ordered Boromir to his death. Boromir had always been the golden child, the favored brother, incapable of wrong. If it had been Boromir in charge of the garrison at Osgiliath, Boromir who lost the last defense of Minas Tirith to overwhelming force from Mordor,  _ Boromir _ who cut his losses and ordered a retreat to prevent more lives lost to a battle that could not be won…

Perhaps Faramir would not be here. Perhaps he would have died protecting Pippin and his kinsman, shortly after attempting to steal the Ring of Power from its bearer. Perhaps Frodo would have uttered his name with fear to his brother, not knowing as Boromir did that he had died on that same, cursed day.

Faramir, however, is here. Boromir is not. Boromir is  _ dead, _ and Faramir wouldn’t believe it if he hadn’t been the one to…

To find him.  _ Some _ of his companions, of Frodo and Samwise’s former companions, had cared enough to give him a sort of sendoff, at least. Perhaps he was lucky enough, if not enough to avoid death entirely, to not die alone.

It had been hard to find him. It had been harder to be the one to break the news to their father.

_ Since you are robbed of Boromir, I will do what I can in his stead. If I should return… think better of me, Father. _

He had been ready to try, though he knew full well he was going to his death. He had not been ready to die, but he could have come to terms with it.

_ That will depend on the manner of your return. _

Faramir had bowed and exited as if to follow the steward’s orders. He was the son of the Steward of Gondor, bound to obey him twice over, for father and for country. He  _ should _ have made ready to ride out once again for Osgiliath.

He did not, for he was in that moment unwilling to throw his life away for someone who had never, and would never, love his son. With familial allegiance severed, that left only allegiance to Gondor: a kingdom that  _ would _ fall, following the course his father intended for it.

The beacons had been lit, in spite of the steward’s express wishes, and Faramir is certain either Mithrandir or his halfling friend were directly responsible. The beacons had been lit, but their lighting was no guarantee that Rohan would answer.

So off Faramir would go. He would not be missed for a day, at least, and that would buy him enough time to reach the lands of the horse-lords—if, of course, he was even followed. If his father even  _ bothered. _

He would ride to Edoras. He would seek an audience with King Théoden. He would beg, grovel before him if he had to, for the aid of the Rohirrim.

Gondor would not survive without them.

“You do not ride to Osgiliath,” someone observed behind him. In an instant, his sword was out of its sheath, in his hands, and pointed at the  _ white-robed _ chest of a wizard Faramir knows well, though he was still unused to seeing him in  _ white _ robes and not  _ grey. _

“Mithrandir.” Faramir did not move, to put his sword away or otherwise. “I intend to scout for weak points, before we attack anew come morning.”

The wizard raised a single eyebrow. “Do you?”

Faramir sighed, and lowered his sword. He sheathed it. “I know better than to lie to a wizard.”

“And yet you did,” Mithrandir observed. “To Rohan, then?”

“How did you know?”

Mithrandir winked. “A wizard knows many things, and simultaneously nothing at all. Suffice to say that a wizard will always know the right thing at the right time.”

Faramir’s skepticism must have shown on his face, for Mithrandir amended, almost hastily, “The right thing, however, is not always  _ known _ to be the right thing, even by a wizard. Knowing the proper course of action is, additionally, a different beast entirely from carrying it out.”

“Right.” Faramir glanced toward the gate to the road. He lowered his voice. “You came from Rohan. What can I expect there?”

“Théoden has a good heart,” Mithrandir said at last. “Should he believe his people to be safe from the reach of Mordor, he will consider coming to your aid. Should he refuse, there is one man who will answer. Do you know of the ranger Aragorn?”

“Son of Arathorn?” Faramir nodded. “I know what my… the steward thinks of him. Are the rumors of him true?”

“They are. Should Théoden refuse, find Aragorn. The door under the mountain must be opened, and when it is, should you arrive in time… perhaps Gondor will survive without the Rohirrim.”

_ The door under the mountain _ could have been a literal door under a literal mountain, of which there were many, or a metaphor no one would understand until the time was right.

“I will.” Faramir decided not to think too hard about it then. “Thank you.”

Mithrandir smiled. “This course of events, I will admit that I did not foresee. My heart is less weary to know that you do not intend to throw your life away. Your father—”

“Will Gondor survive?”

“Perhaps.”

That answer was not as reassuring as Mithrandir thought it was. And so Faramir, only living son of the steward of Gondor, rode off in the wrong direction.

He did not look back.

* * *

Faramir should have considered himself lucky that his planned route had taken him past Dunharrow. It would have been embarrassing, at best, to have arrived at an Edoras emptied for war looking for allies—and the presence of this encampment meant that the beacons had  _ already _ been answered, that Rohan was already willing and ready.

But, as Faramir was escorted up to Théoden’s encampment, he could only think that this might still be  _ too few. _ Still, he followed, because he came here with a job and if delivering intelligence that could protect his city would help accomplish it, then deliver intelligence he would. 

Then, suddenly, came one word. One word, uttered in an unfamiliar voice, yet in a hopeful tone. One  _ name _ that was the last thing Faramir desired to hear: “Boromir?”

He turned, and found himself with a man who was the spitting image of the kings of old, before that line was broken long ago. He was clad in the dress of a ranger, an elven cloak fastened tight around his shoulders, and his eyes went even wider when they met Faramir’s.

This could only be Aragorn, son of Arathorn, long-forgotten heir to the throne of Gondor, and—apparently—someone who had known Boromir. 

“No,” Faramir told him, if unnecessarily. “My name is Faramir.”

Aragorn did not seem to recognize him. “I apologize. You look… similar to a lost comrade.”

“I know.” Faramir’s eyes found the ground. “He was my brother.”

The soldier escorting Faramir to the king cleared his throat. “Sir—”

Faramir was already turning. Before he continued up the ridge, he looked back to Aragorn and said, quietly, “We will talk later.”

He waited only long enough to catch Aragorn’s nod, then quickened his pace to catch up. He had a king to meet with, after all—and perhaps, another one after that.

* * *

When Faramir found Aragorn again, he was not alone, but joined by an elf and a dwarf. The elf was presently introduced as Legolas of Mirkwood, the dwarf as Gimli, son of Glóin, and all three of them had been traveling companions of Boromir’s.

“We set out from Rivendell,” Aragorn told him, “on a quest that would decide, perhaps, the very fate of Middle-Earth. There were nine of us, and we were to…”

“To escort the Ring of Power to be destroyed in Mordor,” Faramir replied, and derived some amusement from the mirrored shock on the others’ faces. “The ring-bearer has not fallen yet. Or… he had not, a week ago.”

“You’ve  _ met him,” _ Legolas observed, with uncharacteristic emotion for an elf. He turned to Aragorn, and muttered something in Elvish. Aragorn raised an eyebrow and responded in kind.

Faramir tried not to be too annoyed at himself for not learning the language when he had the chance. He didn’t succeed.

“Well, don’t hold back,” Gimli burst out. “How were they? Frodo and Sam?”

“They…” Faramir paused to consider this properly. “They were alive, which is the most one can say of anyone in these dark times. They were determined to finish their quest through any means necessary.”

“They told you of it?”

Faramir’s gaze found the depths of the fire they were sitting around. In a short, clipped tone, he admitted, “I did not offer them much choice in the matter.”

Blessedly, none of them pressed the issue, though Aragorn now looked upon him with suspicious eyes. The ranger said, at length, “You were Boromir’s brother.”

It was not a question. Faramir could only nod in response. 

“You were there,” he said eventually, “when he fell.”

Aragorn nodded. “He fought bravely. He…”

“You were there,” Faramir repeated. “When he died?”

“It was the least I could do.”

Despite himself, despite everything, Faramir found himself smiling. “That is the most I could hope for. That he was not alone, in the end.”

* * *

When Aragorn made for the Dimholt road, he did not do so alone. He was joined by a dwarf, an elf, and a man. And so Faramir of Gondor did not return to Minas Tirith among the ranks of the Rohirrim, but by bringing the reinforcements that never came so long ago. It suited him just fine, following the man his brother had called friend, the man who could be king.

The battle was won. The Witch-King of Angmar was slain, not by man, but by a woman: a hard-eyed shieldmaiden of the Rohirrim who had looked once at the company taking the Dimholt road and not looked again. The oath-breakers under the mountain fulfilled their oaths, and were freed.

Minas Tirith was saved—but it was not the end. There was one final battle to be fought. Not to be won, no—but to buy time for the ring-bearer. The ring-bearer who faltered, but ultimately succeeded, and forced Sauron himself to ultimately fall.

Through it all, Faramir was proud to fight alongside his king.

And yet, despite Aragorn’s bravery, despite his willingness to put his own desires aside to save his country and kinsmen—not all were willing to recognize him as such.

* * *

Two men and a wizard entered the chambers of Lord Denethor, Steward of Gondor. The wizard was he of many names, but known here as Mithrandir, the White Wizard. One of the men was Aragorn, son of Arathorn, long-lost heir and last descendant of the kings of Gondor. The other was merely the steward’s son.

“Denethor,” Mithrandir greeted tersely. “Your city is saved, despite your best efforts.”

“Is it?” Denethor replied. He did not stand to greet them. “Or has Gondor merely exchanged one enemy for another? I know who your companions are. I will not give up Minas Tirith to a wild man from the north, one with  _ no knowledge _ of—”

“Of what?” Faramir asked. “No knowledge of how Minas Tirith has suffered under your stewardship? Of how, were it not for the aid  _ he _ brought, your lacking approach would have razed our city to the ground?”

Denethor looked at Faramir then, eyes even colder. “So the traitor thinks he can advise  _ me _ in matters of state.”

Mithrandir gripped his staff tighter, but before he could say a word, it was  _ Aragorn _ who took several furious steps forward. With Denethor seated, he towered over him—and, Faramir suspected, he would still be taller if Denethor did deign to stand.

_ “Traitor?” _ Aragorn exclaimed, disbelieving. “He has done more for Gondor in the past weeks than you have, I suspect, in your  _ life. _ More than that—Faramir is your  _ son, _ and someone to be proud of.”

“That man is not my son.” Denethor glared at Aragorn. “My son is dead.”

“Boromir was a brave man,” Aragorn agreed. “Braver than you. But not braver than his brother.”

The king looked very much like he wanted to punch Denethor. He was not the only one. Only Mithrandir’s face remained placid and neutral as he said, firmly, “You do not wield the power you believe you do, Steward of Gondor. The king has returned, and it is little wonder he does not want you here. We may do this the easy way, or the hard way.”

When it came time to make a decision, Denethor, former Steward of Gondor, left quietly and with no further complaint. He looked back at Faramir, once.

Faramir met his gaze, held it until Denethor looked down and shuffled miserably away. He never saw the father that didn’t love him again.

That suited Faramir just fine. He had other concerns, as the new Steward of Gondor.

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas, Dad! Or, perhaps more accurately—seeing as neither of us are Christian in the slightest— _BITCHIN' YULE!_ Stole that from Tumblr and I refuse to give it back. This isn't the first fic I've written for Lord of the Rings, but it is the first I've allowed myself to put onto AO3 (and for good reason, given how bad the actual first one was.) I know I had fun with this, and I hope you enjoy it as much as I did writing it.
> 
> I _know_ you appreciated that one different choice at the beginning. You complain about it every time we watch the movies (and we've watched the movies a LOT.) So do I. I've been looking for a fic that covered this _what if_ for a while and couldn't find one of my own, so... here we are.
> 
> Bitchin' Yule, Dad. I love you.


End file.
